


The Somnambulist Psychic

by Vampmissedith



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/F, First Time, M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vampmissedith/pseuds/Vampmissedith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Gwendolyn or her lover Millicent believe in the supernatural, yet Gwendolyn claims to be having dreams of murders before the victims are discovered. While they investigate, Watson is forced to come to terms with the relationship he has with Holmes, and whether he has more in common with their clients than he wants to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Somnambulist Psychic

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to my dear friend Mark (who I wrote it for) who looked through this before I posted it.

The Somnambulist Psychic

In my years of working with Sherlock Holmes, there were many cases I had decided to never release publicly, though I had written them down in my journals for my own purposes. I’ve often found that describing our cases has not only furthered my understanding of Holmes’ deduction process, but refined mine. Many of these cases, although not always exceptionally extraordinary, often held emotional value to me, and I thus found it prudent to have them written down for the memories.

There are many reasons why I have kept cases for my personal record and not for the public eye. On several occasions, our cases have involved people of political power that, even if I were to use pseudonyms, would be glaringly obvious in widely read print. There have been times Holmes asked me to keep them to myself as he found them ‘criminally dull.’ In one instance, he told me that allowing others to read it would be tantamount to murder, as surely the tale would have resulted in their deaths due to its uninteresting nature. There have been times, however, that releasing my writings would be incriminating evidence against Holmes and myself.

This is one of those cases.

In the event someone other than myself or Holmes reads this, I can only hope that you are understanding of our situation, or have come across this long after we’ve passed.

After my beloved Mary’s death, working with Holmes was a welcome distraction from my grieving. Though there were many women after her (some who can claim my name, not that I’m especially proud of that) I had come to the conclusion I would never love another woman again. Holmes had no hesitation in insisting I had not loved Mary, nor any woman before her. He was not shy in telling me I had as much understanding of ‘loving women as I do, Watson.’ Though I have and always will disagree that I did not love Mary and that I have no comprehension of loving women, it occurs to me now that I had misunderstood his meaning. Knowing what I do now, I can say he, as ever, was right in his assumption. Among other, perhaps more important, issues, this is meant to record, for my own leisure, how it is I came to that knowledge.

Watching Holmes play his violin has always been a relaxing hobby of mine. They say, or rather Shakespeare has, that it is strange that the strings can hail souls from men’s bodies. It is a curiously true statement. The way Holmes’ nimble fingers pluck and press, sprawled in his chair or pacing before the fireplace, is mesmerising. He plays for me often, though he never says as much. Playing for attention, yes--he is more than willing to admit in wanting an audience. However, it is an unspoken interaction between us when he plays for my enjoyment.

While playing a composition of his own making, a piece with soft, pleasant tones, he stood by the window, midday sun illuminating him. ‘We’re to have a client, Watson,’ he announced, dragging a long, rich note from his violin. He lowered his instrument, peering over his shoulder at me.

I lowered the paper I had been feigning to read (a quick glance was all I had needed to know Holmes would have no interest in any of its contents) and stood, joining him at the window, elbows brushing. Two women stood below, facing one another with hardly a foot between them. Though speaking, one kept turning her head towards our door. Her hand shook visibly, despite us watching from high above. The other woman (whose hair was black and pulled tightly into a bun resting atop her head) clasped the shaking hand in her own and said something in return. I could not see the first woman’s hair, as she wore a large-brimmed hat.

Holmes hummed and leaned closer to the window. ‘What?’ I inquired.

‘Women usually come for missing money or missing husbands, both usually coupled with a missing maid, but this . . . this should be far more interesting than what Scotland Yard’s tried to lazily thrust upon me.’

I raised my eyebrow at him. ‘Murder is hardly uninteresting, Holmes.’

‘Murder is horribly common.’

‘These are serial murders.’

He smirked at me. ‘Nothing my unique talents are necessary for solving. I’m a consulting detective, not an errand boy.’

I chuckled and shook my head. The woman with black hair clasped the still visibly shaken woman’s shoulder and nodded. They entered our door.

Holmes smiled at me. ‘Shall we?’

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to our quarters and let in the two ladies. Now that I was not above them looking down, I could see them clearly. The woman with the black hair was olive-skinned with coal eyes. The one who wore the large-brimmed hat was pale with a smattering of freckles across her nose. Red hair framed her face, vivid against her white complexion. Holmes had been teaching me to see as much in as little time as possible by instructing me where to look. I had no shame in admitting I had a far less keen sense in doing so than he, however I was proud in noticing as much as I had. For instance, though the woman with red hair had no ring on her left hand, there was a strip of even paler skin as well as indentations, indicating she had worn one within the last twenty-four hours. Due to their difference in skin, hair, eye colour, and facial structures, they were not related.

They each shook my hand as they introduced themselves. Gwendolyn had red hair; Millicent had black.

I invited them to sit across from the chair in which Holmes sat, idly plucking the strings of his violin. His bright eyes caught mine and he smiled. Something about that moment between us felt illicit, somehow. Part of it was due to me wondering if he had made the same conclusion regarding our clients, though of course there was something deeper; a message he tried to send me, but either I had subconsciously chose to ignore it so fervently I didn’t realise my own ignorance, or I had been truly unaware at that time. I can’t honestly say which, even now.

‘Trouble sleeping?’ Holmes asked, averting his eyes from mine. Gwendolyn and Millicent, who sat hip-to-hip, shared a look with each other. Holmes nodded towards Gwendolyn. ‘You have dark circles beneath your eyes.’ Against her pale skin, they were stark. He openly appraised Millicent. ‘You’ve yawned twice since entering.’

Millicent held Gwendolyn’s shaking hand. ‘I watched over her as she slept. She only had an hour.’

Holmes plucked a chord. ‘Indeed.’ 

‘What exactly are you implying, Mr. Holmes?’ Millicent narrowed her dark eyes as she spoke. Gwendolyn, as I recall, blushed as dark as her hair.

‘Nothing at all,’ I dared to answer for him. I had known Holmes long enough to have as much foresight as one can ever have in regards to his abrasive nature (not that it was as predictable as many, himself included, believed). ‘My colleague,’ I ventured, smiling at them, ‘was merely asking after your health. As it is, we hope you are well enough to tell us why you’re here?’

Gwendolyn swallowed audibly. ‘I’ve been having these . . . I suppose dreams.’

Holmes snorted. I glanced at him warningly.

‘We’re not in the slightest superstitious,’ she rushed. ‘But I’ve been dreaming that I’ve . . . .’

Millicent, still eyeing Holmes carefully, and I only saw this moment because I was watching them carefully, and I daresay even looking for the gesture specifically, stroked Gwendolyn’s thumb with her own. It was enough confirmation for me, though I’d not needed it.

Gwendolyn closed her eyes. ‘I’ve been having vivid dreams of murdering people.’

‘Watson here, though being my close and dear companion, has dreams of murdering me at least monthly.’ It was untrue, though it had happened once (and only once). ‘We are not so unlike you,’ he added with an undertone of seriousness, despite his previous glibness, and intense staring.

At the time I had convinced myself I didn’t understand his meaning, despite my face being hot.

‘They have died, these people in my dreams. They’ve all been in the papers. Killed in the same way as I dreamt, at least as I can tell from what I’ve read.’ She bowed her head. ‘Millie taught me to read,’ she added as an aside, though it wasn’t necessary for us to know.

I furrowed my brows, then faced Holmes. He smiled at me; the same smile he gave whenever he’d been proved right, or when he was excited about something I’d read from the headlines. 

‘The murders reported from these last few months?’ I asked her, though it was truly directed at Holmes. I had told him the horribly common murders Scotland Yard attempted to send his way would be worth his time.

She nodded. ‘I have a history of sleepwalking, but not since I was a child. I don’t believe in visions or . . . sorcery, magic. I thought perhaps I’d--’ She cleared her throat. ‘Millie has watched me sleep since the first time it happened. I’ve not walked, the little I do sleep. Last night, I dreamt again. I . . . killed a blond man. One of his eyes was brown, but the other was blue. I’ve never seen him in my life.’

Holmes hummed and we met eyes. He tapped the strings to his violin, slouching even lower in his chair than before.

“Your husband hasn’t kept an eye on you?” I asked. They both gasped (though only slightly) and stared at me suspiciously. I gestured at her left hand, the strip of paler skin above her knuckle. ‘You’ve taken your ring off recently.’

It was something I had personal experience with, however painfully.

Millicent had held her right hand, though chose then to let go. ‘I live with them. I have a room to myself.’

‘One you share when her husband leaves, I take it?”

She, as well as Gwendolyn, pursed her lips.

‘Oh, come Watson, don’t be so pervasive!’ exclaimed Holmes theatrically. His ironic tone did not go unnoticed by our clients, though fairly, one would have to be deaf to have missed it.

‘She sleeps with him at night. It’s very difficult to wake him. When he leaves for work, she comes to my room.’ Millicent spoke to me, clearly avoiding looking in Holmes’ direction. ‘She has not left the house, and she hadn’t before, either. Her dreams have all come true.’

Holmes hummed again as he plucked his strings. A crease between his brows deepened. Now, Holmes had a bit of a reputation--as did I, as his partner. Because of this reputation, and some popularity, we had had clients come in with false claims several times--whether in the form of a false confession, a fictional case, or fabricated evidence. This could be either of those, or even something more devious. After all, the person one would least suspect is someone who reports a crime.

‘You’re a logical man, Mr. Holmes,’ Gwendolyn said. ‘I don’t want to be told I’m psychic, or that I have the sight. Even if that means I’m a murderer.’

Holmes nodded at her. It was silent while I watched Holmes’ eyes drag over them slowly. ‘In your dreams, do you stab them with your right or left hand?’

She shook her head. ‘I slit their throats from behind. It’s with my right, though.’

Our eyes locked. In the newspapers, they had not explained in detail how the victims were murdered; just that a knife had been used. Since she had slit their throats, rather than agree to the stabbing, it ruled out her lying for attention. Either she was there, or her dreams were correct.

Holmes’ mouth twitched, his eyes alight with fascination. ‘My partner will escort you out.’

They stood and I led them towards the door, but Holmes stopped us. ‘You’re rather tall for women. Even without footwear, you are both at least 5’6, yes?”

Millicent, despite it being Holmes’ inquiry, looked to me as she answered. It was common for people to take a strong disliking to Holmes, and thus not a rarity for them to speak through me. ‘I am 5’6. Gwendolyn is taller.’

‘Not by much, love,’ she added with a smile.

‘It is impossible for you, either of you, to have murdered any of the victims--or at least the ones I have had the . . . pleasure of examining. Due to the downward angle in which the blade pressed into the flesh, the murderer cannot be taller than 5’4.’

Gwendolyn’s shoulders sagged. A loud, exhaled breath filled the room. Millicent gave Gwendolyn’s arm a squeeze. ‘Thank you, Mr. Holmes,’ Gwendolyn breathed, pale eyes shimmering wetly.

Holmes merely nodded. I escorted them out of our home.

When I returned it was to Holmes at the window, his violin put away. ‘It seems Scotland Yard has an errand boy after all,’ I commented and joined him beside the pane. I watched the two ladies walk away.

‘This is hardly a mere errand, Watson. Did you not hear? We have found a genuine case of psychic ability!’

I scoffed, my elbow knocking his. ‘You don’t believe that.’

‘Of course not. The human mind is very complex and observant; people can, and have, predicted and discovered many situations based purely on deductive and inductive reasoning alone and mistaken it for psychic ability, either due to it all taking place in their subconscious or because someone else is intentionally deceiving them. Take, for instance, the nature of their relationship. You and I saw it for what it was; they’re in love. Had either of us wanted, we could have convinced them of some higher, mystical reason for our knowledge. How did you know?’

‘Her ring. The way they touched each other.’

He nodded. ‘I knew before they ever entered. They stood far too close. You see, Watson,’ he said, lowering his voice and moving his face closer to mine, ‘people stand at an average of five feet from friends and eight feet from acquaintances or strangers while speaking, facing one another. To stand closer implies a relationship, dare I say it, more intimate than that of friends. It is natural, though subconscious, to pull away from those who stand close to you. They touched each other often, noticeably so, within a two-minute time-frame. I saw this from my window. They had absolutely no reason to suspect I saw. I could have easily lied.’

We stood elbow-to-elbow, chests angled towards each other. ‘Are you suggesting that she has gleaned specific information regarding our cases subconsciously?’

‘That would imply she has seen more than she’s admitting, Watson.’ He flashed a quick smile at me before turning away and leaving me alone at the window.

I observed those walking outside, with his familiar footsteps pacing the floor behind me. ‘Holmes?’ I turned to face him.

‘Hmm?’

‘Before they entered, you knew the case would be interesting.’

‘No woman in love with another, one who is having an affair, would come to me about suspicions of her husband fiddling with the maid, nor would someone with such a boring case need such obvious comfort before entering.’

Holmes eyed me intensely, the way he often would when suspecting (and rightly so) that I was keeping something from him. I had nothing to hide, however, and when I asked why, he didn’t reply.

* * *

The next morning, Lestrade came to take us to the next murder victim. Though Holmes had been blatant about how uninteresting it was, he had not insisted they stop asking his advice.

Although there was no particular reason for either of us to believe what happened yesterday, neither of us were surprised to see the body of a blond man, one eye brown and the other blue. His throat was deeply cut and his body--as had the others--was found in the Thames.

The first victim had a misshapen facial structure, nearly disfigured in a way reminiscent of some damage I had seen in my time in war; the second had a dark birthmark that covered a third of her face. The following victims had all had some noticeable flaw or deformity. Differently coloured irises was hardly a disfigurement; the murderer was graduating towards any asymmetry now.

The murders were weeks apart and, though they had kept an eye on the Thames, they had not seen anything suspicious. Lestrade had had his men interrogate the family and friends of the victims. None had any discernible motives and all had alibis. That was what Lestrade told us of the previous victims. As far as anyone could tell, aside from the obvious, none of them had anything in common.

‘Not a thing, Holmes, to connect them. No common friends, relatives. They keep popping up, though.’

‘Don’t be a moron, Lestrade,’ Holmes tutted, holding the victim’s chin to move his head from one side to the other. ‘Though I suppose it must be difficult to act against your nature.’

‘I know how to interrogate, Holmes. It’s more than you’ve done.’

Holmes stood. ‘Their connection, and the motive, is as plain as, well, the nose on their faces. Or lack thereof, in regards to the fourth victim.’

Lestrade merely rolled his eyes. ‘I take it you’re officially on the case?’

Holmes assented as we left.

‘You know what he meant,’ I said, falling into step beside him.

Holmes smiled at me, but said nothing.

* * *

When the morning paper ran the story, it wasn’t even midday that Gwendolyn and Millicent were at our door.

‘We saw the headline,’ Gwendolyn stated; blurted, rather. She had managed to remain quiet until she sat. ‘I couldn’t see much, but that was him in the photo. The man in my dream, with his family. I had no idea how wealthy he was.’

‘Nor did the murderer.’ Holmes paced, hands clasped behind his back. ‘He didn’t empty his pockets though now his money is too damaged from the water to be used.’

‘I swear, Mr. Holmes, I watched their bedroom door, and her, the entire night.’ Millicent didn’t shy from holding Gwendolyn’s hand and giving it a slight squeeze.

‘I’ve told you already, both of you are too tall to be the murderer. Of course, that doesn’t prevent either of you from being a witness.’

When they shared a look, Millicent’s black hair fell against her olive skin. Gwendolyn tucked the curly tendril back into place, her skin pale in contrast to Millicent’s. ‘I . . . suppose you could have looked away for a moment?’

She shook her head. ‘I assure you, you didn’t leave, not once.’

‘It’s not your fault, Millie. I’ve always walked in my sleep.’

‘No, I would have--’

I raised my hand. ‘We’re not accusing anyone of intentionally withholding information. You’re both innocent, just perhaps . . . unknowing witnesses. You have both expressed neither of you believe in the supernatural or visions. We’re men of science, as are you. Or, rather, women of science.’

Millicent pursed her lips and shook her head, but said nothing. Of course she was adamant. She knew without a doubt that Gwendolyn had not slipped out without her notice, as she knew she had not looked away or become distracted. However, we did not have that luxury.

‘I can’t go to Scotland Yard. I don’t see the murderer in my dreams. I am the murderer.’

‘We’re not suggesting you go to them,’ I insisted.

When you’re with someone as long as I had been with Holmes, in any sort of capacity, there are moments when your thoughts are connected, or rather--since the notion that minds can be connected in any sense is as fanciful as precognition and as unlikely--you begin to think alike. Seeing as we had spent weeks, months on cases in the past, Holmes guiding my eyes and ears towards that which he was used to claiming, my mind had been tuned and trained as his. 

For so long, I had had his hand on mine, figuratively (though occasionally literally as well) to lead me that often I no longer needed to be led. There is only so much training one needs before it’s no longer necessary. So that connection is nothing spectacular.

Without previous discussion, after Holmes said; ‘They’re far too moronic to see how clear it is that you’re innocent,’ I followed with; ‘We would like to watch over your house until the next murder occurs, to be sure.’

The way Holmes stared at me, to this day, I believe I was not meant to notice. Where I stood, I was angled so that I could see them straight-on, but Holmes, idly fiddling with his violin quietly, was to the side. Spending time with Holmes had refined my vision of course, but I had not been blind and as a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, my peripheral vision was exemplary. His light eyes grew even lighter and his mouth curved softly. Pride filled me, of course, at having been able to keep up with his extraordinary mind, but that wasn’t the only emotion that had me drowning. I was far more reluctant, however, to put a name to that feeling.

‘You think there’ll be another death?’ Gwendolyn inquired, her voice timid and eyes downcast.

‘Yes, as do you. We are on your side, Gwendolyn. Believe me when I say that is very much something you want.’ Holmes finally removed his eyes from me, regarding them. ‘Watson and I will need to know at what time your husband returns and leaves from work. I doubt highly he would be enthused with two handsome men on the premises, so we’ll need to arrive and leave while he is home, so he doesn’t see us. We’ll remain outside, naturally.’

Though neither of them seemed at all enthused by our idea, they didn’t hesitate to give us the hours we had asked them to provide.

Gwendolyn left through the door Millicent had opened for her. ‘I must say, Mr. Holmes, you’re not as I expected,’ Millicent said, remaining behind. ‘Nor you,’ she added, glancing at me. ‘And it is a relief to know that you’re the same, that you’re like us.’

Holmes nodded at her warmly, though I froze. I would have, if ever questioned, denied that I’d stiffened. I’d have insisted that she meant our likeness in logic, or put on an air of innocence, as if the very idea of her meaning something else did not, and could not, occur to me or anyone. Perhaps I could have truly convinced myself.

As it was, the subject was not discussed in the slightest, though I was careful to stay an appropriate distance from Holmes the rest of the day.

* * *

Once Gwendolyn and Millicent intimated to us the hours of her husband’s absence we devised a plan, or rather explained it to them in deeper detail. We were to arrive at their place of residence shortly after his return and leave before he did. Whilst there, we were to remain hidden, keeping an eye on any exits. With the two of us, it would be unlikely for any person within the residence to find some way outside (or inside) without our seeing it. This didn’t upset either of them; on the contrary, they rather seemed relieved. The only caveat being that Millicent refused to accept the possibility she had missed her lover’s absence, though otherwise told us of her gratitude. Extra eyes, as it were, could benefit her.

‘When is it that you sleep, Millicent?’ Holmes asked of her.

‘After George leaves, of course.’

‘And is it not possible that during this time she also falls asleep?’

Gwendolyn shook her head. ‘I don’t sleep in the day, Mr. Holmes. I would know.’

‘Sleep deprivation is a fascinating subject. Why, during my more laborious cases, even I have been known doze off without meaning, or knowing.’

For the first time, Millicent turned her dark eyes to her love with doubt. ‘Gwen, dear, a few hours a night, if that--’

‘No, Millie, believe me, I don’t sleep in the day. I can’t, with the light.’

Holmes and I shared a disbelieving look; one which the two of them noticed. Despite her insistence she hadn’t, Gwendolyn’s pale cheeks reddened, and despite Millicent’s doubt, she straightened her back, visibly bristling. 

Holmes looked between them. ‘It is but one highly likely, and quite frankly the correct, possibility for the situation at hand.’

‘And the other possibilities?’ Millicent demanded.

‘She is an intellectual genius and prodigy that exceeds even me in deduction and has, entirely subconsciously, pieced together the murders of strangers before they’ve happened.’ He chuckled at the notion. ‘Clearly that cannot be the case.’

Millicent pursed her lips. ‘Do you always solve your cases by insulting your clients?’

‘It’s worked for me so far.’

I cleared my throat to hide my own laughter, though my pinched smile gave me away.

‘The unfortunate issue being these murders are weeks apart and we may have to be frequent visitors until the next one occurs.’

‘I hope we can figure out what’s happening before then,’ I added.

‘Another addendum: it would benefit us if Watson and I had a tour of your residence, and time to become familiar with the inside as well. There are so many nooks and crannies and opportunities for one to hide and sneak within one’s own home and it’s paramount I become as acquainted with the area as someone who lives there.’

They agreed to that and when I inquired if we could have the tour presently, they both nodded.

‘Shall we go, Watson?’

‘We shall.’

* * *

Gwendolyn, as the owner (or rather, wife of the owner) gave us the tour. Millicent prepared tea for us all.

While she introduced each room and allowed us to look over and study the layout, I observed as I had been taught. I noted how easy it could be to open the windows (no effort to do so from the inside; impossible, if locked, from the outside) and each creak the floor gave while walking. Every dark corner, every lamp and candle, every cupboard caught my attention. Holmes, naturally, did the same, and no doubt saw more than I could hope.

Their home, while not extravagant nor overly modest, was not particularly interesting. With no trees or any other climbable objects near the house, no one could leave from the top floor through a window without grievous injury fully conscious, let alone while sleepwalking. There were no children, landladies, or house servants to fill the extra space. The only live-ins other than George and Gwendolyn were Millicent and a cat, which I deduced couldn’t have been a murderer or witness. Sherlock Holmes I may not be, but even I knew that. 

Even after I took in as much as I could, Holmes’ keen, bright eyes flicked and dragged from one inch of the house to the next; his long, nimble fingers slid across surfaces, books and the shelves on which they rested, and cocked his head towards any sound the floor or doors made. To see the world the way he does would be either overwhelming or fascinating; perhaps both. I must admit, there were times I envied that and other times I was glad my head was not constantly bombarded with images and unsolved puzzles.

When there was nothing more for me to take in, I watched Holmes and studied how he processed. How the afternoon sun shone through the clear window and cut across his sharply-angled face; whether he saw the light as an indicator of something in that brilliant mind of his or not. He caught me staring and smiled before turning away and moving to the next room. Wind ruffled his hair and the breeze against my own scalp was pleasant. He eyed me and then raised his hand. He stared at the half-open window.

‘Is this always left open?’

‘Just during the day.’ Millicent closed it.

He moved to the next room, as aware of each groan the floor made as any person who had lived there for years. He avoided them easily, as it was our third time through the house. My years as a soldier taught me the same; it was how I knew what he was doing, as I did it as well.

He stalked--no, glided--in such an easy, casual way one without a trained eye might mistake his grace for an unaware, lazy gait. It was the way the loping slink of a cat seemed ineffectual and unwary of its surroundings, and it wasn’t until it had its prey wriggling in its paws that one remembered the predatory precision that lurked inside.

In another life, he would have made a brilliant soldier. Perhaps, in his mind, he is, simply fighting a different war.

‘You have a lovely home,’ I said while we sat. The tea Millicent made for us had an unfamiliar spice. While her complexion and flavour of the tea was decidedly foreign, her accent was as English as mine.

‘It was given to George through his father.’

Holmes sipped his own tea, food untouched before him. ‘Millicent too, I presume?’

They shared glances. Wary ones, at that.

‘My mother was with his family and when she died I took her place as the help.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I presumed as much. Your attire and voice is English, but your room and taste in food is obviously not; accent and clothing say your mother died when you were young enough to take on English custom, but your tea and personal space say you were at least old enough for her to instil cultural habits.’

‘You saw all that by looking through our house?’

‘Watson saw it as well.’

When they looked at me, I nodded.

‘Furthermore, your marriage to George was arranged. Judging by the loudness of this house and obvious ageing, it’s old, and old houses mean old money--privileged old money, with help,’ he gestured at Millicent, ‘that runs through generations. You mentioned earlier Millicent taught you to read; therefore, you were uneducated and uneducated means lower-class, whereas she, as the help of a wealthy family, read to them as they wrote their accounts and itineraries. Your clothing, again, points to wealth, but the low quantity and age of the garments show that the money has not landed into your dear husband’s lap.

‘Now, what sort of family with old money and formal education marries off their son to someone below their station? Possibly they lost their money, though unlikely as they would not have a house to freely give, nor would they hand over one of their staff, especially one as educated as Millicent who has been with them since birth. So, then, it is apparent that George is either highly loathed by his own family, hence why he was given an old house in poor condition--Watson, you are far too lenient with your praise--and not the money, or he has an older brother who, as the eldest, inherited the more important possessions, like money and higher status in betrothal.

‘How do I know he wasn’t given money? No privileged, wealthy man would work those abhorrent hours unless he had no choice, and clearly, as I have already deduced that he comes from wealth, no man raised without that wealth would spend the money he works abhorrent hours earning on the highest fashion, as one who was raised more modestly would not care for gaudy clothing.

‘It is far more likely that, rather than being loathed, he has an older brother as any family willing to marry below their station is benevolent, perhaps too benevolent to loathe one of their own children. Your marriage was clearly arranged and not out of love as your . . . affections clearly aim towards the fairer sex and any person who marries to hide their affections from either others or oneself would not remove a wedding band as soon as one were able. Were the ring removed out of guilt, one would not be so easily affectionate on street corners and in front of strangers--even ones with a reputation of being a genius, such as myself. In fact, in front of someone who is known to have a keen eye, if feeling guilt, one would try harder to hide. Your ring, then, is removed as you do not want to wear it, which means the wedding was not something you wanted. However, were your marriage unwanted on both ends, you wouldn’t bother wearing it at all. Your husband loves you.’

Amazing.

Where I had seen the expensive décor and clothing, knowing they had money (or had come from it) he had seen much deeper. Say what you will about Holmes, but he was truly spectacular. 

‘What are you trying to accomplish, Mr. Holmes?’ Gwendolyn’s eyes glistened wetly, her head bowed.

Holmes blinked, as shocked as I that he hadn’t impressed our clients. After a moment of awkwardness, he moved forward as if nothing had happened. ‘If anyone left this house, it was on the ground floor. Trust me when I say that I will discover the truth and put your minds at ease.’

‘I did not sleepwalk out of this house, Mr. Holmes.’

‘There is no other explanation and all it takes is us seeing you leave once. After all, it is more likely you sleepwalk more often than our murderer murders than it is that you only do so on nights with a victim.’

‘I know she doesn’t sleepwalk at night and if she says she doesn’t sleep in the day, she doesn’t.’

Holmes sighed impatiently, as he so often did, and I sagged. People didn’t often appreciate being read by him, as I had to remind myself regularly.

‘And the alternative? That you, despite neither of you believing such nonsense, would have us believe?’

Gwendolyn shook her head. ‘I’m not saying that.’

‘In any case, feel free to sleep soundly. Watson and I will be outside all night. You won’t need to rest during the day.’ Neither of them met our eyes. Holmes sighed again. ‘I know you’re insistent, but you can be wrong. Nobody is infallible.’

Millicent stood, taking my empty plate and Holmes’ untouched one into her hands. ‘You can be wrong too, Mr. Holmes. Good day.’

She left.

Gwendolyn led us to the door. Before we left, she smiled (though wanly). ‘It’s nice not needing to hide ourselves, even if . . . .’ She trailed off. My heart misplaced itself, though I wasn’t sure why. ‘We all need someone to share our secrets.’

We left quietly, me moreso than Holmes.

* * *

As we had several long nights ahead of us, I slept that afternoon to ready myself. Holmes did as well, though he also had the aid of narcotics.

We arrived to curtains drawn, three shadows through old fabric. We alternated; for two hours the front and left side of the house were under my watch while Holmes kept an eye on the back and right, then we would switch. We wrote notes for each other with our observations. We left, tired, minutes before George, with nothing new.

At least the weather was warm and dry. It would have been miserable otherwise.

* * *

It was some time later (a fortnight, were I to hazard a guess at length) that I came into contact with our clients again. Having spent the last two weeks with the abhorrent sleeping schedule the case required, I admit that I was not at my best or brightest. We had taken to sleeping three hours after watching their residence, and three hours just before we left. Holmes, whether due to his usage of cocaine or years of fluctuating sleep cycles, hardly seemed affected. I, on the other hand, had yet to adjust. My ability in observing had not suffered, otherwise Holmes would not allow my presence, but I longed for some development. Being in the military, and having seen combat, I was perfectly capable of performing under conditions far worse than what I was being subjected to at the time; it did not, however, mean I wished for its continuance.

No one, not even their cat, left during our watch. No shadows, no stray glow of candles, moved behind the curtains. Unless the somnambulism occurred after our leave, it could not be blamed. (Of course I was not discounting that possibility; merely pointing to the fact).

Millicent and Gwendolyn sat across from me, having been led there by Mrs. Hudson. Holmes was not present. As we surmised the case could potentially take weeks to solve, he had perused the papers in search of something to entertain his mind and prevent intellectual stagnation. He’d found a case, or rather the potential for one, and scurried off in disguise. (As is custom, he was right to investigate, though the case solved quickly and was hardly worth noting; we enlisted the help of several vagrants and Holmes’ knowledge of Romani culture and natural proclivity to disguising himself played a part, but I digress).

‘Have you had another dream?’ I asked, cutting straight to the point. Her husband didn’t work that day or the next, and I chose to rest as much as possible during that time. As callous as it may seem, I hoped she’d say yes. It would provide us with evidence so we could end the case quickly.

‘No,’ she answered. ‘I’m actually far better than I’d become accustomed to since this started.’

‘So neither of you have slept during the day?’ I directed my inquiry towards Millicent.

She shook her head. ‘Not as of late. You would have seen her leave, so I’ve been sleeping at night.’

‘And you?’

‘I didn’t sleep in the mornings before,’ Gwendolyn insisted.

The difference in her appearance from our first meeting was immediately noticeable. Before, she had been pallid with dark circles beneath her eyes. There had been a fragility about her that was no longer present. Now, she spoke more quickly; sat straighter.

‘Do you have any further information?’

She shook her head. ‘We were in the area.’ Her ringless hand sought Millicent’s; their fingers threaded with the ease of a hundred times preceding it. ‘I thought, perhaps, you might have some news? Something I might like to hear? Of course if you can’t share the details of the case with us I understand.’

We had nothing.

‘We don’t want to influence your subconscious.’

‘Perfectly understandable.’

‘So before we took your case you’re absolutely certain you didn’t sleep in the day at all?’

She sighed. ‘Had I, I would have told you. Believe me, I would do anything to help you solve this. Once it started, I was too frightened to sleep. It’s not that I didn’t try. I’d toss and turn all night. Even when Millicent started watching, I doubt I got two hours’ worth. Once I did finally get to sleep, George getting ready for work woke me. I know I didn’t get much sleep as the last thing I saw was the sky turning grey. After he left, I’d go to Millicent’s bed and she can tell you I wouldn’t get much more there. Once the sun gets bright, I can’t. I just can’t sleep while the sun’s out.’

I looked to Millicent. There was no need for a question.

‘It’s true. She’d get an hour at most in my bed.’

‘But you’ve no qualms sleeping in the day?’

She shook her head. ‘No, sir. I was accustomed to working whenever I was needed and getting sleep when I could. My employers didn’t particularly like me. I’m too outspoken.’ Her smirk belied her self-deprecation.

‘Well, rest assured, Holmes and I will figure this out and you’ll go back to your regular lives.’

‘Where is he, anyhow?’ Millicent inquired with the sincerity one had in asking after the health of an aunt’s spoiled dachshund.

‘Oh, he’s--’ It occurred to me that it may not be prudent to explain he was bored with the proceedings of their case and dividing his attention to another. ‘Out,’ I finished after a moment’s pause.

Gwendolyn tilted her head. ‘You’re not with him?’

‘I’m exhausted. No offence meant,’ I added hastily.

Millicent’s eyebrow raised in a manner far more condescending than I thought necessary. ‘He isn’t?’

‘He’s accustomed to working when needed and sleeping when he can.’

My response, as desired, won her admiration. At least her disposition sunnied.

Gwendolyn smiled at me. ‘I have to say that it is so relieving that you are as you are; that you two are helping us. Not many people would understand me; us. I had worried that you two would see our relationship--as you were bound to notice from your reputations--and turn us away, or insult us, or God forbid reveal us. But you understood.’

Perhaps it was a blessing, Holmes being away. This was far too much sentiment for his liking. _How will this help the case?_ my inner Holmes asked. _How does it hurt?_ I replied.

‘My family,’ she continued, with the urgency one had in spilling a long-held rumour during the subject’s brief absence, ‘was very poor. I was an only child, having watched any babies my mother had after me die as infants. I was my family’s only chance at finding a better status for themselves. I have a distant cousin, he’s nouveau riche, and he knew George’s father. It was through him I was betrothed, and I was devastated. How could I say no, though? When I knew it would help them? Make everything better? And it did. Marrying him improved everything about my family’s life, my mum’s health, my father didn’t have to work so hard and so thanklessly, and their next child didn’t die.

‘I pretended and I tried so hard to love him, as he loved me, but I couldn’t. I felt terrible; how could any decent person hate a life that brought so much happiness to everyone they loved? My younger sister will never have to watch her siblings die before turning three or go days without food and all I did was wallow in self-pity.

‘But Millie, she . . . .’ Gwendolyn turned to stare at her beloved, both their eyes alight when they met. They squeezed one another’s hand. ‘She saw me, truly. Saw through my façade, and she saved me.’

‘Oh Gwen,’ she scoffed with a small shake of her head, though her lips pulled into a thin smile.

‘It’s true, love. I mean it.’

I focused on the notes I had scribbled; I wrote down nothing emotional they had revealed, only what Holmes would find useful and interesting. Her sleeping habits, mainly, but I did add a quick remark that he was right about her family’s status. Somehow, staring at them felt like an intrusion, though clearly they were aware of my presence and thus their lack of privacy.

‘I apologise; normally I don’t talk so much, but then again, I’m rarely able to discuss our relationship and clearly it means the world to me.’

‘She hasn’t been this rested in ages, as well. She’s normally very talkative.’

Gwendolyn and I laughed, though her more merrily.

‘What about you, Dr. Watson?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I’ve gone on about Millie. How did you and Mr. Holmes meet?’

To say I was surprised at her assumption would be terribly misleading; in fact, a complete fabrication. At some level, and not nearly as subconsciously as I had repeatedly told myself, I knew they had inaccurate ideas of the nature of our relationship, led on by Holmes himself. As a child, on numerous occasions, I’d witnessed my mother ignore my father’s filthy boots despite consistently admonishing him about their state, and in turn, I watched my father ignore her ignoring them. Throughout my life, I caught myself doing similar things; ignoring a dirty dish, perhaps, then acting entirely surprised to see it one morning before washing it, to an audience of only myself.

The shock that reared itself in my head was hollow.

‘Holmes and I--’ I began to correct, though somehow I knew before I spoke I wouldn’t finish. In the same way, I knew Holmes wouldn’t have led them to believe such without good reason. The aborted correction was for myself; my own peace of mind. ‘--met through a friend.’

They say the best lies are those woven in truth. The not-unpleasant thrill at helping along their notion was founded on my ability to convince them of falsehood, I told myself.

‘We both have our vices,’ I continued unnecessarily. ‘Mine left me without much in the way of money, and his left him without a roommate.’ I smiled warmly, not even remotely forcibly.

They left soon after that, having decided they had taken too much of my time. I escorted them away and Gwendolyn asked me to give her thanks to Holmes when he returned before I shut the door. I heard their muffled conversation (‘We should go to the market, love, see if we can find unbruised fruit.’ ‘We don’t need any more fruit, Gwen.’) before I went to the window. It was custom for Holmes to watch the clients leave, and with him gone, I took on the responsibility. They walked away, arm in arm, not unlike Holmes and me. I closed the curtain and worked on my manuscript, if only to clear my erratic thoughts.

* * *

I drifted into unintended sleep, only to be roused when Holmes returned, reeking of muck and alcohol. His false beard and uneven gait could have fooled me, had I not seen it earlier as he left. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Of course not Watson, but I had to smell the part.’ He undressed while walking towards the water closet, clothes and facial hair shedding from his lithe frame. ‘Tell me what you discussed with our clients when I’ve finished bathing.’

I had long since given up trying to figure out how he knew these things. Were I more awake I would have looked at my surroundings, but in my current state I decided to merely ask.

After his bath, he sat by the window with violin in hand, wet hair dishevelled, and sleepwear clinging to his damp body. The darkened sky of early evening illuminated the sharp angles of his face, soft pinks and blues highlighting his hair and reflecting off his violin in gleams.

‘How did you know they were here?’

He plucked a solitary note. ‘The wrinkles on the sofa cushions and misplaced decorative pillows thereupon, the lingering scent of familiar perfume in the air, Mrs. Hudson telling me of their visit while I walked towards our door . . . .’

I half-heartedly chuckled. I had more questions to ask, though I was still uncertain of whether I would. ‘It was a social call.’

‘Really? Intriguing.’

I procured the notes I’d written, though nothing new or important. I expected him to scoff, but instead he turned the paper over in his hand several times before returning it to me. He gazed out the window. I stood there for a moment, working out the best way to phrase my questions, before finally deciding against it. I moved toward my manuscript.

‘Watson,’ he halted before I went too far.

‘Yes?’

‘You want to say something. You’re . . . hovering. It’s annoying.’

I pocketed my notes then faced him, hand at the back of my neck. He didn’t look at me in return; simply continued to pluck strings patternlessly, curled leisurely beside the window, while I stood half a room’s length away.

‘Why did you tell our clients we were . . . together?’

‘I said nothing of the sort.’

‘You implied.’

He remained silent for some time before he lowered his violin. ‘And how, dear Watson, did I imply that?’

Saying how he had done so proved more difficult that I had anticipated. He had merely said, after all, that we were ‘like’ them and even I had convinced myself (albeit falsely) he meant something else entirely. Rather, I had pretended that I’d noticed nothing. The few times they had implied the same, I similarly ignored their words.

I had half a mind to leave the room out of pure frustration. Somehow it had seemed more than what it was before Holmes asked me to clarify. One small sentence was all he contributed, and silence in response to their words (of which I was also guilty). Earlier that day, I had done far more in convincing them. Perhaps, it dawned on me, that when they referred to us being like them, they were testing us; waiting for a rebuttal, or explanation, and I had been partner to convincing them there was none to give.

‘You said we were like them and never extrapolated what you meant, or corrected them when they said the same.’

His violin lay forgotten beside him, though he continued to stare out the window. ‘Nor did you.’

‘I didn’t realise--’ Of course that wasn’t entirely honest, but even if I had tried to be truthful in regards to the situation, how could I have explained? Instead I merely stopped talking and sighed.

‘Something they said brought upon this profound realisation then?’

‘So you’re admitting it?’

‘I needed them to trust us implicitly and alleviate their worries of us destroying them out of some moral hatred or what-have-you. Mysteries are much easier to solve when they aren’t actively hiding something unrelated.’

I nodded, relenting. ‘They asked how we met.’

‘Did you correct them?’

‘No.’ Holmes slowly turned to regard me, eyes brightening and brows raising. ‘I assumed there was good reason for you to lie,’ I ejaculated hastily.

His eyes searched me, head tilted. Even as far apart as we were, I could feel the heat of his gaze. ‘What it must be like to have a brain such as yours, so intentionally dull and oblivious.’

‘Never let it be said you don’t have a charming way with words.’

He leapt from where he sat and strode towards me, the robe draped over his sleepwear billowing. ‘How I envy you, Watson, and the ability to ignore inconvenience,’ he spat as a snake would venom. His eyes darkened, a fire behind them rarely seen and rarer still directed towards me.

He stormed right past me and slammed his bedroom door sharply. I jumped at the noise, wholly committing myself to believing I had no idea what he was on about. I left moments after, grabbing my cane on the way.

* * *

I didn’t walk far, as I only left to clear my mind. Instead of ruminating over Holmes’ words, I worked out the logistics of the case (not that there was much I needed to rethink).

The downward angle of the cut; the deformity of the victims; Holmes’ eyes following me these past few days . . . .

Had much changed between us, honestly? His eyes were always on me and my eyes were so often, far more than necessary, on him. Touch between us wasn’t uncommon.

None of that was in the least bit important. Gwendolyn’s sleeping habits and dreams were. Once she either sleepwalked or, as was more likely given she had less stress due to our watch, there was a murder without her dreaming of it, that particular mystery would be solved, and we would only have to focus on the identity of the murderer, not how she had come to witness the killings. I couldn’t afford to lose sight of the case at hand. It wasn’t worth my time in the slightest to reconsider anything about Holmes, or his words, or mine; not that there was anything worth considering in the first place.

Darkness rarely brought about the best of thoughts, unless Holmes were at my side, and unfortunately, as was being proved, getting fresh air had been fruitless. My mind still raced with words such as inconvenience and ignore; flashed with Holmes’ long fingers clutching the neck of his violin and encircling my wrist.

On my return home, I forced myself to look away from every married couple, arms locked or hands entwined. Seeing them was unnecessary. Love had no place in my mind. Sentiment would not solve this case.

‘Go on, dear,’ a man said as he crouched low, grabbing something from the pavement, ‘I’ll only be a moment.’ His wife, despite his words, stayed beside him. The scene left a scowl upon my face.

I heard the low, funereal piece Holmes played before I entered.

I took my time putting away my cane and overcoat. I stood in the centre of our sitting room, the sofa close to my hip. I waited for him to speak or otherwise acknowledge my presence, the weight of his last words heavy in my chest and head. If I apologised, it would be an admittance to something I hadn’t allowed myself to see or put words to, but the silence somehow brought it out more with each passing second. Sitting, however, seemed to be defeat.

‘Perhaps the murderer crouched, and wasn’t short? Could that account for the downward angle?’

He dragged out a final note, before lowering his instrument. He turned slowly, then approached me carefully. With only a few inches separating us, he stopped and put his violin on the sofa. ‘The victim would’ve toppled atop the murderer. Tell me what you know of these killings.’

‘The victims have some sort of visible deformity, though hardly with this last victim. Their throats are slit without any sign of a struggle and their bodies dumped in the Thames. Nothing’s stolen from their pockets.’

‘Dig deeper, Watson.’ He pressed the top of his bow against my shin. ‘Tell me _about_ our murderer.’

It was difficult to concentrate with his how close he stood, face lowered over mine. How had I never noticed how thick his lashes were, or how beautiful they were against his skin when his eyes were at half-mast? ‘The downward, er . . . stroke of the . . .’ He leaned even closer, a slight curl to his pink mouth. ‘. . . cut indicates . . . short stature.’

His smile deepened, then he began to move around me. ‘Look harder. Lack of a struggle means the victims were taken by surprise, not difficult to deduce given the murderer attacked from behind. Nothing stolen, which means the murderer didn’t realise their wealth--particularly this last victim--therefore, there is no previous stalking or planning ahead.’

As he glided behind me, his bow traced around my leg as smoothly as he walked. His sleepwear wasn’t what I’d call flattering, yet somehow it enhanced the intimacy of his closeness; his crimson robe he wore over it did become him, however. Heat pooled in my stomach and warmed my cheeks. I swallowed reflexively and uselessly.

He stopped when behind me, chest to my back. ‘However, in order to have seen their deformities, clearly the murderer saw them from the front. Lack of pre-planning on the murderer’s behalf and lack of struggle from the victims indicates that right after seeing them, the murderer immediately spun behind them and--’

The resin smoothed-strings of his bow pressed to my throat. I tilted my chin back, giving him better access should he need it, and closed my eyes. It was hardly the first visualisation exercise in which I’d taken part, though clearly the way he went about it this time was new. His chest lightly bumped my back with each intake of breath, whether mine or his.

‘Our murderer is angry and spontaneous and either prowls the Thames searching for a victim, though unlikely as if that were the case there would be more deaths, or walks by the Thames regularly and strikes when the opportunity presents itself.’

The bow slid across my throat, then he dropped it to the sofa. He held my shoulders, fingers curling around them. He pushed closer, mouth beside my ear. ‘Have you cured your selective blindness?’

I opened my eyes. Dancing firelight left orange streaks across the ceiling, crackling logs filling the silence.

I could feign ignorance.

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘Turn around, Watson.’

I did as told, remaining as close as possible. Once we faced each other, an inch between us, he kissed me. The softness of his lips and touch was unprecedented, though it shouldn’t have surprised me. I’d watched his careful ministrations with chemistry, always careful to pour and mix the exact amount of chemicals, and how he handled his violin, always tuning the strings with ease and care. With a wit as sharp as his, and the harshness of his general behaviour, it was easy to overlook the small details.

As Holmes so often said, the small details were often the most important.

It isn’t necessary for me to write the following activities in detail. We made love. He is as attentive a lover as he is a sleuth. His tongue, most often causing displeasure in those he uses it on, could cause the opposite so intensely I forgot to breathe. Many times, he brought me to the brink of completion before backing away, a gleam in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before (but have seen many times since).

It is not an exaggeration to say that Holmes is the best, and most exciting, partner I have had--in every sense of the word. I spent so long refusing to accept any inclination towards the same sex, particularly Holmes, that finally having that which I denied myself increased my enjoyment tenfold.

My repression, and fear of societal reaction should our relationship become known, has caused problems, and some separations, since that night together. Now, of course, he and I are content and safe, which is what matters.

Following our first lovemaking, atop the bed linens with the duvet wrinkled around our feet, we lay breathless beside each other. Our hands entwined as though made to be clasped together. The post-coital bliss left my mind utterly clear and free of disappointment. In those moments after being so breathtakingly _had,_ it seemed as though nothing could ever fuddle me again, as if life itself made sense.

Holmes propped beside me on one elbow, idly tracing patterns on my chest. ‘I’ve found that honesty with oneself uncomplicates things.’

‘Well if self-reflection always led to such a resolution, nobody would have that problem.’

Holmes smiled at me thinly.

I scanned his face. ‘Was that your first time?’ I doubted it, but Holmes had never seemed interested in such matters.

‘Did I seem to be a novice?” He quirked one eyebrow with a cheeky grin.

I chuckled. ‘No.’ Though well-versed in relations with women, Holmes was the only man I had ever bed. ‘Did I?’

‘You were perfectly acceptable.’

‘Acceptable?’ I didn’t know whether to be offended, embarrassed, or worried. 

He laughed unrestrainedly; beautifully. ‘You were amazing, Watson.’ He kissed me deeply, holding the side of my head.

‘No worries then,’ I said when he pulled away.

‘What do you see?’ he asked.

The room was dark, though the fire from the sitting room and moon outside allowed enough light for me to see the sparkle in his eyes. Some gold from the sitting room made his skin glow, though only as if it were an ethereal outline.

‘You. Just you. I suppose you find that simple.’

He brushed the side of my face with his thumb, sparks following his touch. His eyes searched mine, leaning over me. ‘No.’

I brushed some hair, damp against his forehead, away from his brow. ‘And you? What do you see?’

‘The dilation of your pupils, moonlight on your sweaty skin, the pulse in your throat . . . . Everything.’

‘Holmes, in another life, you’d have made an excellent soldier.’

‘No, Watson. An artist.’

He kissed me again and sat astride me. The newness of our relationship did wonders for virility, though that isn’t important in the matter of these writings.

* * *

I woke to Holmes playing a jaunty tune he composed. Smiling into my pillow, the remnants of my dream still vivid, I listened. He was truly a gifted player, and he played for me, and me alone. It was an honour to hear, and after last night, the privilege held more significance. Perhaps his playing had been courtship.

I put on my robe and left the room. I had more decency than he, unsurprisingly; he played naked. He grinned at me. ‘Morning, Watson.’

‘You’re in a pleasant mood.’

‘What isn’t there to be pleasant about? We’ve a crime to solve, sleepwalking to prove, and you are a marvellous lover.’

My cheeks warmed at the compliment. ‘You slept well, I take it?’

‘Like a proverbial baby. And you?’

‘I slept well. I dreamt we were young, sixteen or so, eating strawberries together. It was so vivid; our fingers and mouths were red and I could taste them when we kissed.’

He stopped playing and stared at me, eyes wide. He laid his violin on the sofa, then strode to me, grabbed my face, and kissed me. ‘Thank you, dear Watson, whatever would I do without you?’ He scurried to his (our) bedroom.

‘Holmes?’

‘Get dressed! We’ve somewhere to be!’

* * *

Holmes had proved himself enough that Scotland Yard would have needed nothing more than his word to make an arrest were it legal, though finding a leather bag filled with various necessities as well as newspaper clippings about the murders certainly helped. A knife in the pocket of an overcoat didn’t hurt matters, either.

George didn’t even resist Lestrade as he took him from his home, Gwendolyn and Millicent watching with hands across their mouths. 

He was the height Holmes predicted--5’4--and, though not alarmingly so, his face was misshapen. Asymmetrical in a subtle, but unpleasant, way; not enough to frighten, but enough where parents would have to admonish their children for staring. He wailed his apologies as they took him away, sobbing confessions drifting to silence with distance. Were he not a murderer, I would have felt empathy from his cries alone.

As it were, my sympathies extended only to Gwendolyn and Millicent, whose tear-streaked faces tore through my chest more than the lamenting of any killer. Their broken trust stung more than his guilt ever could.

There wasn’t much we could do or say to them, save for apologise for the inconvenience. What Holmes had in genius deductions he severely lacked in tact and comfort, so it was best to leave quickly.

‘You were right, Mr. Holmes,’ Gwendolyn choked out. ‘About the house, the money, my family. But not everything.’ She swallowed, more tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘He didn’t have siblings, and his family hated him and beat him, for how he looked.’

Holmes stared at her blankly and for a moment, even I paused. While no justification for murder, no child ever deserved that, no matter his appearance. I cleared my throat. ‘Our condolences,’ I said for us both, nodding first at Gwendolyn and then at Millicent.

Gwendolyn’s uncombed hair hung straggled around her pale, watery eyes. She didn’t look at me, rather through me. ‘I need you to leave now,’ she breathed, then shut the door.

As was so unfortunately common, a case solved didn’t leave those involved with closure; instead, the opposite. 

We walked away, arm in arm as was common for us, yet now with the hours-young change to our relationship.

‘You told them the height of the murderer, how wouldn’t they notice?”

‘People have a way of ignoring what’s right in front of them, don’t they Watson?’ He nudged me gently. 

I had to concede his point. ‘Still, how did you know it was him? We’d never seen him.’

‘Humans have an innate need to share their lives; to be heard. It’s why you write down our adventures for publication; why they were so eager to share their story with you yesterday when they visited. It’s why George woke up with his sleeping wife beside him and told her that he murdered someone.’

He paused, though only for a moment.

‘And why I, while you were sleeping, told you of my first, and until recently, only love.’

I wasn’t sure what surprised me more; that Holmes grouped himself with humanity when normally he was so keen to distance himself, or that he as good as told me he loved me. I couldn’t have torn my eyes from his or stopped smiling had I tried. 

‘It was sentiment that solved this case, Watson, I couldn’t have done it without you.’ He tilted his head. ‘That isn’t true; I would have solved it eventually.’

I good-naturedly scoffed.

‘Now come Watson, we’ve yet to have breakfast.’

So it was the beginning of what society would deem illicit that brought an end to this particular case, in such a way editing it for the public is impossible, which I would have to do, lest we have mad mobs at our door to run us out of London. Very few know the true nature of our relationship (poor Mrs. Hudson among them; Holmes is not known for being quiet, a trait he brings to the bedroom, and with his prowess I can’t claim any different) for good reason.

I have since seen Gwendolyn and Millicent a number of times, though never intentionally. Our conversations are always brief. They are doing well, and pleased to hear that we are, also.

I hope that someday someone will come across this case without leaving in disgust at the love between two men, a love which solved a case brought to them by two women. Should the day child abuse and murder be more abhorrent to society than relationships between the same sex, then I will gladly share this, from death if need be. Until then, these writings will remain as meaningless as a whisper in a sleeping lover’s ear.


End file.
